from Red Wax
Bridge with window
Time is running out for the rare brindle fox. I know this because of the
paragraph under the photograph. I killed an ant once when it bit me. I thought
a bee had stung me. At the time I was 5 years younger than my
15 year-old brother. My other brother is a vegan and repairs clocks.
Both my brothers either repair clocks or rescue foxes. Whereas I’m an
actor who specializes in playing dead.
Unable to withstand the scrutiny, the list of nature’s ordinary things
grows shorter. We’ll start with the beaver dam if we can get the electric
fence turned off. Book of the Dead as ballast. The leaves spread out to
dry. Come over here and see what you think. Feel free to recommend a
cut, large or small. We’re feeling a little overwhelmed with all the
descriptive sentences in the pastoral file.
Something I wanted to say got crossed out. That’s what happens in a
paper birch universe. Let’s make sure the flood of water images doesn’t
make the page muddy.
Try the unutterable now. Do your dog songs. I can’t speak, asking
nothing, mute as night.
The sea ran right up to the lake. Briny up but brackish down. Can the
mountains see this? Are the cliffs losing control? Anonymous writes a
play with a score full of dirges. Big finish with fire whooshing low and
fast across the set. Like most horizons, it’s made of silk and can be
replaced—unlike the brown animals waiting just off stage. Nothing can
disappear inside itself. We’ll title it Mirror With No Echo. Sky with no
painter. Sadness without a bell. We have three days to cathect the